As they returned to Muramasa’s suspiciously ill-concealed hiding hole, Byakuya turned away from the mindless chatter of the swords. He could only stand to listen to their foolishness for so long, and today had been more than enough.

“Where are you going?” Kazeshini demanded instantly, and Byakuya glanced over his shoulder.

“To sleep.”

Predictably, Kazeshini sneered. “Humans.”

Assumptions were a weakness, but Byakuya had no intention of reminding any of these about that. He walked down the tunnel that led to his temporary ‘room’, feeling the heat of Senbonzakura’s suspicious glower on his back.

“I will watch him,” his sword told the rest, and light steps stalked after him. Byakuya didn’t respond in any way.

He did leave it to Senbonzakura to close the door behind them and listened to the faint slide and clack of armor as his sword slumped.

“I don’t like this.”

“Is there a problem?” Byakuya asked evenly.

“I know why it’s necessary.” Senbonzakura came away from the door and moved to light the candle lamps. “But the very idea that I would run wild this long, or that you would tolerate it…!” He tossed down the taper sharply, making the flames flicker. “It offends our honor.”

“Our honor lies in our duty.” Though Byakuya couldn’t entirely disagree. The pretense grated on him, as well. Senbonzakura sighed softly and Byakuya turned to see him lean against the wall, head down. He knew his sword shared his pride, his determination to deal with this intrusion of the family’s past, and frowned a little; was there something else wrong, then? “Senbonzakura?” He moved closer, and Senbonzakura looked up, eyes rueful behind his mask.

“It just wears, sometimes. Forgive me.”

Byakuya quirked a brow. “Forgive you for your loyalty? Most certainly not.”

That made Senbonzakura laugh a little. “Yes, ma—” He caught himself and finished, sober again, “Byakuya.”

Ah. Was that it, then? Byakuya considered their situation and smiled faintly; unexpected benefits, perhaps. “There are other ways than speech,” he murmured, coming forward until he could rest one hand on his sword’s shoulder and set the other on the edge of his mask. Behind it, Senbonzakura’s eyes widened, and Byakuya could hear the intake of his breath.

“Yes.” It was barely a whisper. Senbonzakura’s eyes closed as Byakuya’s fingers tightened.

Slowly, Byakuya lifted the mask away and laid it aside, smoothing back Senbonzakura’s long, sleek hair. His sword shivered under his touch, eyes opening to look up at him with unmistakable hunger. Byakuya closed his hands around Senbonzakura’s face and swallowed his gasp in a slow kiss. Senbonzakura’s mouth yielded and opened under his, and, as Byakuya kissed him again and again, formed silent words against his lips: yes and master and please. Byakuya smiled. The thought of reclaiming his sword this way, too, pleased him, and he ran two fingers down Senbonzakura’s side, where the armor ties were.

“Yes?”

Even through the armor, he could feel Senbonzakura shiver. “Yes.”

Byakuya turned briefly to cast the kidou Falling Snow over the closed door; there would be no unexpected visitors while that lasted. He wanted to take his time about this. Indeed, he had to. Zanpakutou didn’t wear clothes—their form was what they were. To change that was a delicate undertaking.

So he went slowly, unfastening the sode, opening the robe and folding it down, unknotting each cord of the dou one by one. Senbonzakura stood still under his hands, chest heaving quick and light as the armor came away piece by piece. Byakuya set each aside with care; it was his own armor, after all. By the time he came to the last layer of cloth, Senbonzakura was trembling, bare hands winding tight in Byakuya’s sleeves.

“Master,” he said, low and husky, eyes wide, and Byakuya drew him close.

“You are mine,” he murmured. “My sword. The edge of my soul. No matter what conjurer’s tricks a mad and masterless sword plays against us, we will not be parted.” He slid a hand into Senbonzakura’s loosened hair and kissed him again, fierce. The passion of his sword’s response calmed the fury that even he had had trouble holding back this long.

Briskly, now, he unfolded the futon Muramasa had provided for his lone human associate and stripped away the last of their clothes. Senbonzakura went willingly when Byakuya pressed him down, and sighed on a soft note of pleasure as Byakuya’s hands stroked slow and firm over his body.

It was a strange thing. Byakuya could imagine so clearly his sword’s pleasure, the building warmth within him; almost, he fancied, he could feel it himself, a delicate echo in his soul. Perhaps it was even so. The slackening of those long, sleek muscles under his hands sent a curl of warmth through him as well. This was his.

When Senbonzakura started arching up into his hands, increasingly abandoned, Byakuya extracted the vial of sword oil he kept tucked into a seam of his pillow. He hid that more carefully than anything but his own thoughts, here. Zanpakutou needed little of the care mortal steel did. The rituals of care and cleaning were for comfort, and sometimes for vanity, not necessity—a gentle reinforcement of the bond between a shinigami and his zanpakutou. To find such a thing here would make even the fools outside suspect both of them immediately. Senbonzakura laughed, breathless, as Byakuya uncapped it. “It’s good to feel your touch again,” he said softly, and Byakuya smiled a little at the faint color rising over Senbonzakura’s cheekbones.

“Indeed.” He held Senbonzakura against him and rubbed his entrance slowly, gentle as he had ever been with a lover of his own kind. Senbonzakura’s body yielded to him at once, though, and his sword’s sudden flush and half-lidded eyes said all was well even before his low moan drifted on the room’s still air.

“I am yours,” Senbonzakura breathed, hands working against Byakuya’s shoulders. “I am of you. Your will is mine.”

Heat spiked through Byakuya at those words, that acknowledgment, and he caught Senbonzakura closer, fingers driving deeper. Perhaps, he thought distractedly, this pretend estrangement had worn on him worse than he had thought. The press of Senbonzakura’s body against his and the low, wanting sounds he made were far more satisfying than Byakuya had expected them to be. “You are mine,” he agreed, husky.

Senbonzakura made an eager sound as Byakuya turned him over and gathered him back into the curve of his body, rubbing slowly between Senbonzakura’s cheeks. A little more of the oil to ease his way, and Byakuya was pushing in, breath coming harder with the fierce heat of his sword around him.

“Please,” Senbonzakura gasped, and Byakuya could only answer him, thrusting in deep on one long flex of his hips. They moaned together.

After that, Byakuya didn’t hold back, and the echo of heat, and the way Senbonzakura pushed up to meet each thrust told him this was right. This was his zanpakutou, and they were not apart. He sheathed himself in his sword, hard and sure, again and again, and knew the pleasure winding through him was both of theirs.

“Master…” Senbonzakura’s panting breaths hitched as Byakuya kissed the nape of his neck, open mouthed. “Yes…”

“Yes, my sword, my edge.” Byakuya slid his hand down Senbonzakura’s stomach to close between his legs, running oil-slick fingers firmly up and down his sword’s length. Senbonzakura bucked helplessly under him and muffled a low cry in the bedding, and Byakuya groaned as his sword’s body tightened. He pulled Senbonzakura’s hips up and thrust into that tightness deep and hard, again, and again, and then the oddly doubled pleasure was too much to resist and he caught Senbonzakura close as heat shuddered through him, raking his nerves.

They lay twined together for a while, panting softly while Byakuya stroked Senbonzakura’s hair, savoring their satisfaction. Finally Byakuya eased his sword back over and touched his bare face gently. The curve of Senbonzakura’s lips made Byakuya smile too. “All is well?” he asked.

Senbonzakura lifted Byakuya’s hand and kissed his fingers. “All is well, my master.”

Byakuya nodded approval of this and held his sword closer.

They had a little time, yet, and only a fool would give up the truth before he had to.

End